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To Chase Yesterday's Sunsets

by Brock 7 months ago in science fiction

Forget what you're told

To Chase Yesterday's Sunsets
Photo by Almos Bechtold on Unsplash

The man sat by the cliff, staring into the rows of houses that laid beyond him. Despite his best attempts to gather his emotions and funnel them into coherent thoughts, he couldn't manage to find accurate ways to perceive his target. Still, even in his lurid and strange condition that set him far beyond the bounds of anything he'd ever felt, he was not panicked by his plight. He was unable to shed any tears, nor could he smile or laugh. The very chance that one of the structures he was examining housed the criminals he had sought his entire life had always seemed to justify an attack against the entire community. Such logic had always been his code, his religion even. But as he watched the unaware inhabitants of the structures wander about their community, he felt a certain hesitation that he couldn't shake.

'What now?' He finally thought, realizing a dim light was beginning to shine through the dark thoughtlessness that had consumed his mind moments before. The weight of the rifle hanging from his shoulder seemed to multiply. 'What now,' the thought repeated.


Slim bars of light fell onto Richard's face through the blinds shielding the window. Each time he poked his head above the sheets and attempted to gaze around the stuffy, small room, it seemed that the pattern had realigned to ensure it would catch him directly in his eyes. From outside his door, he could hear his parents talk and found the conversation to be of little importance, yet he listened with a general sense of curiosity.

His father was detailing the most mundane parts of his day at work, while his mother was filling the gaps between his bland stories with talk of the political turmoil that had been holding a knife to their town's throat for months. While Richard didn't particularly care about either subject, the late hours of the summer day and the uncomfortable heat of the room prodded him to listen on. He carefully measured the different dynamics of his parents' voices, finding his father to be rather annoyed and frustrated with the several situations he was recounting. Those meant to assist him with his work were seemingly unable to carry out even the simplest aspects of their jobs. Yet, though his father's rants were somewhat disconcerting, Richard was considerably more alarmed by his mother's frantic and worried tone. He began paying closer attention to her periodic rants, noting the uncomfortable edge resting upon each sentence she spoke and a hint of frantic exaggeration with each new topic she mentioned. His unfamiliarity to the subjects she so intensely thrust into the forefront of their conversation prevented him from understanding the true roots of her concern, but he was observant enough to know that something serious stood at bay.

When the grasps of sleep found Richard, he was shuffled into a sort of nervous, speculative trance, a condition they capitalized on by rocking him into lurid and terrifying dreams. For what felt like hours, he was tossed from one flimsy piece of reality to the next, first focusing on any anchor of joy he could find in his racing thoughts, then surrendering to a level of horror at all the fantastical events playing out around him, and finally accepting the distorted moments of his imagination as reality, looking for some sort of comforting sense amidst the chaos. Images of burning buildings filled with mutilated bodies flashed by in just enough time for him to process the carnage. Infuriated men in black uniforms yelled in the faces of screaming children, only to resort to drawing their weapons and ending the innocent lives when their young victims would not comply. Families collapsed to their knees, grabbing their gaunt stomachs in want for food that they would never receive. While Richard managed to sleep peacefully, terror struck his unconscious soul. Had he been awake, he would have wept. Yet, he slept, his small body oblivious to the trauma taking over his mind.

As the night grew longer and calmer over the skies and community outside, so did Richard's thoughts, and his dreams faded from a compilation of disturbing violence to more simple, less jarring scenes. The stars above and ground beneath seemed to recompense for anything that had happened between them the previous day and became one dark mass, hosting numberless creatures in its vast expanses. Around Richard, his community slept peacefully. All parties and celebrations had ended long ago in the hours following the sun's lazy descent. Everything was quiet, everything was still.


Richard awoke to a shrill scream emanating from somewhere in his house, his eyes flashing open to meet this unexpected and newfound disturbance. He sat up, urging the grogginess to flee his head, and planted his feet firmly on the floor. In a matter of moments, he considered them to be ready to bear his weight, though he did become somewhat lightheaded as he shifted off his mattress and onto them. Without having time to worry about such slight inconveniences, he pushed off his heel, caught himself with his alternate leg as it automatically fell into line, and headed in the direction from which he had heard the high-pitched cry for help.

Once he emerged from his room, he saw his mother standing in the kitchen as she gazed out the window to the center of the town. Her face reflected a strange sort of emotion as she bent her mouth in a distorted frown unfamiliar to Richard, and her eyes were wide and brimmed with tears. A putrid smell overcame the room and suggested that she had all but abandoned the eggs she had been cooking on the stove only moments before.

"What's going on?" Richard inquired as he stepped into the room, a frown falling upon his face. "Are you okay?"

Without regarding him, his mother scurried to the window and gazed outside. The dull, panicked look in her eyes didn't alter as she hurried across the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Richard further questioned, a hesitant edge becoming apparent in his voice, "What's out there?"

Still in a state of shock, Richard's mom turned to him. Speechless tears ran down her face as she brought her hand over her quivering mouth. Growing more and more concerned, Richard gazed out the window, searching the landscape first for an obvious cause of distress, then examining the horizon for anything that was out of the ordinary. In the distance, large mountains loomed above his town, covering the early morning sun and casting long, clumpy shadows across the streets. Animals were scattered about in the fields surrounding the dirt roads, lazily going about their usual business of eating and breathing. Scattered randomly about were an assortment of modest yet comfortable houses. The only difference between what he saw and what he'd typically expect was the strange amount of people in the street, all looking in one direction at what seemed to be absolutely nothing.

"I don't see anything." Richard reported, as he turned towards where his mother had been standing. He quickly discovered that she was no longer by his side. The foggy atmosphere of the room grew more prevalent, pungent, and dark as the eggs continued along their process of preparation for much longer than they were intended to. "Mom?" Richard called out, "Where are you?"

Just then, the distinct sound of a slammed door filled the house, Richard took one more glance out the window before going to inspect the situation. As before, nothing of any unusual degree caught his eye as he explored the expanse of land before him, but the unusual amount of people in the street was now growing to a strange proportion, and their movements had become strained and impulsive. Several adults were sprinting down the street, away from the direction others stood towards in awe. Confused but largely unconcerned, Richard walked to the front door and opened it, casually inspecting the frame and entry in an investigation to determine the cause of the slam. 'Perhaps the wind blew it open,' he thought as he craned his neck around the entrance. For the first time that morning, what he saw left him with a feeling of genuine concern. A few hundred yards down the road, his mother had joined the groups of people sprinting away from what Richard had determined to be an inconsequential landscape. He called out to her, hoping she would turn back, to no avail. Caught in a strange mindset of confusion crossed with panic, Richard rushed to the kitchen to turn off the eggs and, ignoring the fire alarms that had begun loudly protesting the fumigating kitchen, raced after his mother, calling to her as he went.

Suddenly, a splotchy red burst of liquid seemed to explode next to his mother's chest. In that same moment, she fell to the ground in a tumbling, uncontrolled descent. Richard recoiled at the grim sight, falling to his back as his steps got out of order, and he shifted his momentum away from the horrible scene. Behind his mother's body, figures began to materialize seemingly from nothing. Richard counted no less than four armored soldiers, each carrying a heavy assault rifle and dressed head to toe in black armor. Their dark, mysterious presence was emphasized by black helmets that covered the entirety of their heads. The faces were decorated with a white, sinister smile as if it had been scribbled on by a small child with homicidal intent.

Before he could even try to understand what was unfolding before him, Richard scurried back to his feet and carried himself away as quickly as possible. The shock of the situation mangled his mind into a series of emotions he couldn't understand, and although he tripped and rapidly fell into the unforgiving dirt, no one pursued him.


The man stared into the bright colors of the evening fire, noting each time the wood was sculpted into a smaller piece of ash and paying attention to how bright the coals were burning. He took a momentary break to bring a warm cup up to his lips and gently sipped a mouthful of coffee, letting the liquid flow soothingly down his throat. Then he was back to his intense observation of the fire, once again allowing himself to be consumed with empty curiosity as he gazed into the flames.

"Are you sure they're not there?" Inquired the woman by his side. Her mouth was in a definitive frown as she also gazed emptily into the fire. For a few long minutes, her question was answered with silence and the slight breeze rushing around her. Letting out a slight shiver, she scooted a few inches closer to the fire. The day's strains had left her feeling weak, and her eyelids seemed to grow more and more slothful as the sun began its long descent below the horizon in the distance. Around them were a few scattered trees in each direction, but the landscape was primarily green and desolate. The mountains in the distance invited darkness to replace the day earlier than it otherwise would have, and the crisp autumn air began to chill.

"We've looked for them for years," she continued, once again having found comfort in the fire. "Maybe tomorrow we can go back."

The man looked away from the fire, breaking his concentration to intercept her eyes with his own. "It wasn't worth it," he quietly yet boldly stated, "There's nothing to go back for."

After hearing these words for what felt like the hundredth time that day, the woman finally grew frustrated with the finality of those of such a bold and conclusive statement.

"So that's it then?" she retorted, her voice steadily rising, "We just walk away? Where the hell do you want to go? What would we even do? I didn't walk for miles for you to tell me that we took the journey for nothing."

With the same quiet demeanor, the man took one more sip of his coffee, savoring the liquid as it flowed from his cup.

"Do what you want," he finally answered, climbing into the bedroll he had put next to the fire.

With that sentence, he rolled away from her and positioned himself to watch the rest of the sunset while the fire warmed his slouched back.


Richard filled his lungs with the hot afternoon air as he forced himself to take another step. He had been walking for almost four days, and though he had anticipated the journey to be rather difficult and had tried to prepare accordingly, he had run out of food after his second night and finished his last drips of water on the fourth morning. He now stood in the center of a dirt road, praying that the buildings he so desperately searched for in the distance would appear.

Between him and his town behind him were miles of loose, dusty road composed from rocks of variant sizes poured onto a layer of tar. Each section looked almost identical to the surrounding stretches, and none of it looked particularly special or even interesting. Richard had been slowly tromping across its warm, sun-baked surface for days. Deep on the horizon, mountains looked at him with a prideful sort of pity, mocking him with their chilly, snow capped slopes as he sweat profusely. With each passing hour his skin was slowly stained more and more red by the unrelenting sunlight. In a car, this journey would have taken a matter of hours, but most of the vehicles in each of the vacant small towns he had come across were crashed, and the few remaining wouldn't start. Turning on the faucets or flipping light switches also proved to be a futile task, as each community somehow seemed to be drained of water and devoid of electricity.

Growing more and more agitated at his circumstances, Richard's steps slowly went from being determined, purposeful strides to sluggish and halfhearted pushes forward. His motivation and desire to continue diminished with his energy until he found himself standing completely still, looking towards the miles ahead of him with squinted eyes that were slowly losing their battle against his heavy eyelids. Sweat covered his sore muscles, and he made his way to the side of the road, where he sat with resentment, allowing his back to recline and meet a patch of Earth next to a tree. He closed his weary eyes and traded his consciousness for a break from his surroundings, instinctively turning his face away from the sun as he did so.

Then, just as he was moments away from surrendering himself to whatever fate would await him in sleep, he was startled back to consciousness by the fast crunch of approaching footsteps coming down the road. He quickly sat up from his small plot and grew excited to see three men making their way towards him. For days, he had been alone, wondering if anyone else had somehow managed to survive whatever strange attacks had befallen the region. He merrily called out to the group and began running towards them, only to be met with the butt of a rifle. The blunt object was plunged into his stomach, leaving him bent over in pain. Had he eaten anytime that day, he would have thrown up, but his empty stomach yielded nothing to the involuntary gag that escaped his lips. He remained in a hunched over position, staring at the road as he heard the surrounding men begin to discuss his fate.

"How old is he?" one asked.

"Too young to carry his own weight," answered the man with the rifle. "There's no way in hell he'll make it to Clarkston."

"Save the bullet, then," another gruff voice said. "We don't have enough to waste one on everything we see walking this trail."

The words barely seemed to reach Richard as he remained bent in pain, yet he heard and processed enough to be rather terrified of the men that seemed to now hold his fate. He looked up, only to see two of them in front of him. Confused, he began to turn his head, only to feel a sudden burst of impact slash across his right temple.


The man sat several yards away from the dim and dying fire, carefully examining the night sky as if the stars spelled out answers to late admirers. Behind him, the woman was peacefully sleeping, unaware of his small venture away from their camp. After he had definitively turned away from her and embraced sleep for the night, she had stayed awake for hours stoking the fire and quietly fuming in a confused rage to ensure he would not hear. He hadn't intended to be up and lost in thought, but his attempts at sleep were rewarded with anxiety and an unshakable sense of urgency that had eventually driven him from his sleeping bag.

Relaxing his neck and allowing his sight to drift in whatever direction it landed in, he tried to remember his old life, certain that such memories would revitalize emotions that he couldn't seem to conjure through any other methods. He found the exercise disappointingly shallow; even though he could vividly remember birthday parties and family members and pleasant afternoons, it felt as if he was watching them through someone else's eyes, the perspective of one who had long since died. In a very real sense, he supposed that he had. Years ago, if he'd been asked to anticipate his future, he would have stated something about a big city, some lucrative yet now forgotten job, and an insatiable desire for finding the kind of love he had fantasized about. Now he sat in some forgotten corner of the west, a heartbroken and diluted version of the boy he remembered.

His thoughts returned from their broken memories and returned to the houses near the base of the cliff he had discovered earlier that morning. Even as his mind recoiled at the thought, he felt his brain wage war with itself as it struggled in indecision as to whether he should return. On one hand sat the seemingly obvious decision of continuing what had been his lifelong quest ever since he had buried the person he used to be and stepped out on the path that had brought him here. On the other was an understanding that he could leave whatever awaited him beyond that cliff forever and simply venture towards a new chapter.

He glanced over at the woman dozing under the vast sky of stars and felt his heart bend towards her. Despite his intentions to avoid such feelings, he had come to love her, and even as he tried not to show it, she had become more important to him than anything else. They had dragged each other through the torturous conditions of their journey for years, and though they rarely seemed to agree on anything, he had slowly found himself giving more and more consideration to how she felt, taking careful note of each tear that flowed from her eyes and finding recompense in whatever laughter she allowed to escape her mouth. Naturally, he recoiled at such patterns of thought, but he had long given up on denying such emotions and had steadily grown closer and closer to surrendering to them.

Becoming overwhelmed, the man took a deep, long breath of the cool night air and decided to focus on the stars, leaving his troubles for the morning.


Richard bolted forward, instinctively arching his back to sit up as a frigid, jarring sensation violently took over his face and torso.

His foggy eyes instinctively snapped open to discover a figure standing above him, holding a large canteen which was evidently filled with something ice-cold. The sun had grown less intense in both heat and light, and the once bright and almost painful sky had melted into a calm, warm orange.

Even with the odd circumstances that now surrounded him, Richard's surprise was almost instantly replaced with a crushing thirst, and he reached for the canteen of water that sat in the stranger's hands. The figure didn't immediately comply with his request, but they eventually crouched next to him and slowly worked the container of fluid towards his mouth, tipping it upwards and allowing him to drink a few satisfying gulps before placing the bottle in some sort of bag they wore on their back. Richard looked up to face his Savior, though he found them to be nothing more than a dark silhouette against the flaming sky. Squinting his eyes, he blocked out the gorgeous, soft light of the dipping sun and focused on trying to distinguish any features of the person who rescued him.

After seconds of concentration, details began to emerge. Though he had hoped that he had been found by someone with whom he was familiar, he found himself studying a face as foreign to him as the world he had been thrown into. His disappointment, however, was soon masked with a shallow form of admiration. He began to notice the soft features of the figure above him, highlighted with defined cheek bones and a strong jaw. Their eyes were a soft hazel, though they were speckled with different flakes of blues, greens, and grays. As Richard gained more consciousness, he could tell that their skin seemed relatively clean when compared with his own, and their black clothing appeared to be new and in good repair. Having a person to address rather than simply a pillar gave Richard a new sense of confidence and comfort. He slightly shifted his weight, accidentally rubbing his shoulder on the knee of the person kneeling over him, and forced anxious words from his lips.

"Who are you?" he croaked, painfully realizing that his small allotment of water had not been enough to soothe his dry, crusty throat.

"I'm Joan," she responded, allocating only a small portion of her attention to the conversation as she spent the rest tentatively gazing at her surroundings. She carried a rifle on her shoulder and looked as anxious as Richard felt despite her clear preparation for anything that could happen.

After spending what felt like hours gazing at the horizon surrounding them, Joan finally pulled Richard to his feet and examined his bashed forehead. Though he couldn't see the injury, Richard's perception was clouded with a terrible, throbbing pain, and a few tentative touches to the point of impact showed him that he had bled a significant amount.

"We need to go," Joan said, nervously eyeing the wound. She stood up and grabbed Richard's hand, guiding him gently yet quickly down the road. "There's a camp a few miles from here. We need to make it there before sunset."


The woman awoke with a startle as her hand instinctively sought the gun under her pillow. Before she had even processed her surroundings, she was aiming the short barrel directly towards the chest of the man quietly stoking a small fire.

"Dammit," she cursed, lowering her weapon, "You scared the hell out of me. How long have you been up?"

Ignoring her question, the man put another small log onto the burning fire and stared into the red coals beneath the slowly dissipating wood. His brow was scrunched into deep, anxious lines and his clean face and fresh outfit suggested he had been awake for several hours.

"How many people have we killed?" He inquired, destroying any attempt the woman had made to begin the day on a lighter note.

"Don't think like that," his companion challenged. She sat up from her bedroll and tried to force his eyes to glance away from the embers and look into hers, but his concentration refused to break. "We only did what we had to do. You know that more than anyone."

"We didn't have to do anything!" The man declared with a sharply. "It's all on us. We were told that we might be able to find the War Lords. The rest is on us."

"So what do you want to do?" The woman inquired, obviously growing frustrated with the man's bland, bleak patterns of conversation. "We've come all this way just to turn our backs on the world?"

The man didn't answer. Instead, he finally met the woman's eyes with his own. She expected his stare to be angry or at least frustrated, but all she saw was a sense of deranged sadness tinted with a singe of tragic nostalgia.


Shortly after the sun had gone down but before its light left the land devoid of details, the pair reached their location. A handful of tents had been hastily set up next to a large, beautiful house. Small groups of people who appeared to be the inhabitants of the structures were standing in front of the house, listening to an aging man who was speaking from the porch. Richard spotted a middle-aged couple standing near the front of the audience, and a ping of pain immediately shot through his heart. He couldn't help but be reminded of his parents.. Clueless as to their location, condition, and fate, Richard had been worried for days.

As he got closer to the crowd, he began to hear loud, sermon like words being delivered. "There's only one group that could be responsible for these kinds of attacks," The man claimed. Richard's interest suddenly spiked. Even the possibility of a logical explanation was enough to command his respect. "It won't be easy to access, and whoever's behind this will do everything they can to stop us from getting to them, but we have to try. With the impending loss of power, gasoline, and readily available resources, the trip may take years. But we have many recruits anxious to put the world back on track, and we're getting more by the day." Upon the last phrase, the man looked at Richard, and he felt a seed of hope be planted somewhere deep inside of him. Suddenly, he was willing to do whatever it would take to follow this man's orders if it would help what had happened.


The woman finished cleaning up her bedroll and began taking a small handful of nuts and dried fruit out of a container she'd carried in her backpack. She thoughtfully ate the small breakfast as she watched the man rummage through his own pack. Ever since she had known him, he had refrained from breakfast, convinced that he operated better if he waited to eat until he was hours into his day. He was examining several different pieces of equipment ranging from rations to ammunition to climbing gear. He would carefully remove one object from his pack, dust it off gingerly, examine it from several angles, then set it down by his feet. Once he had repeated this process with everything in his possession, he repacked his bag and walked over to the woman.

"Why the inspection?" She prodded.

"I'm leaving," the man answered. "There's no point in being here anymore."

"You're giving up?"

"I'm moving on. The attacks happened more than 10 years ago. I'm done."

The woman stepped closer to him, positioning herself to face him more directly. Suddenly, she drew her gun and trained it on his forehead.


Richard felt sweat drip from his brow and run down his face as he removed another shovel of dirt from the Earth. Steve, the man who had become the leader of the small camp, had ordered him to make sure the hole was at least five feet deep and six feet in diameter. The backbreaking task had taken most of the morning, and the afternoon sun was growing to be uncomfortably hot as the day drove on. Finally, just when he felt exhaustion threatening to overcome him, Steve came over to the small crater to examine Richard's work.

"That will do," the man said with a smile. "This is why I like you Richard. You don't skimp on the details."

"Of course not," Richard responded. He examined his work for a moment before continuing, "What is this for?"

Steve seemed to notably deflate in the face of the question. After standing in silence for a few seconds, he crouched down and sat on the edge of the hole, facing Richard. His knees creaked as he did so, reminding him of his age, but he didn't allow his body to deter from his suddenly solemn presence.

"Richard," he said, "We're preparing to save the world. Sometimes that takes sacrifice. 30 miles north of here, there's a small town that has yet to be attacked. We reached out to them in hopes of an alliance and aid. They've refused to join us even though they have more than enough resources to help us send search parties out. It has become necessary to form a small, armed militia within our own camp to examine the community and ensure none of the men we're looking for are seeking refuge there. I've already talked to several of my best men who I thought would be perfect for the job. Unfortunately, several refused to help me, creating an uncertainty of authority here," his sentence trailed off, as if he couldn't find the right words to finish his thought.

"What does the hole have to do with this," Richard asked, confused at how it fit in.

"It's for their bodies." Steve said sternly. He stood up and walked away from Richard, refusing to offer any more attention to the conversation they had shared.

Richard watched him as he left, feeling hesitant about Steve for the first time since he had arrived at camp.

Later that night, as everyone watched, Steve addressed the group from his porch as he had become quite accustomed to doing. "We are trying to save the world." he stated "Anyone who breaks bread with us and refuses to help is not only useless, they are a traitor. Today, these four men have illustrated that they fit such a description." To the surprise of everyone watching, armed guards led four captive men out of the house. They were all bound and gagged. Each of their eyes reflected confusion. After passing through the tall doorway, the guards led them down the stairs and to the side of the curious crowd. "We have no place for traitors." Steve concluded, staring at the four incapacitated men. Each of their guards suddenly kicked the insides of their knees, forcing them to kneel and painfully wounding their legs. The men moaned in pain as their attackers stepped back towards the crowd.


"Do it." Richard demanded. His face refused to emote even a hint of fear. In fact, he seemed to show no emotion at all.

The woman hesitated. "Come on," she pleaded, "let's just go check it out one more time."

"You can shoot me," Richard responded, "Or watch me walk away. Make the choice."

The woman studied her companion's face, taking note of his eyes. For the first time since she had pulled his unconscious body off of a dusty road more than a decade earlier, they were illuminated with a sense of innocence. His furrowed brow seemed to be several pounds lighter, and his posture was less burdened. She thought of the gun in her hand, and of what could be awaiting them in the town they had found. Finally, she dropped her pistol in the dirt next to her feet.

"Fine," Joan finally said, a long-lost smile stretching its way across her lips, "Let's go."


Richard's hand trembled as he held the pistol away from his torso and aimed the short barrel between the eyes of a woman kneeling a few feet from him. The captive had been unbound and was free from her gag, yet several surrounding guards made it abundantly clear that any attempt at escape would prove futile. She stared speechlessly at Richard, examining the boy with sullen, hard eyes.

"Whenever you feel ready," Steve said, "This woman is nothing more than a traitor. She won't help us pull the world back to normal."

Managing to respond to Steve's comment with only a slight nod, Richard took a step back, steadying his posture. He closed his eyes, tightened his grip on his weapon, and squeezed the trigger. When he opened his eyes, however, he did so to discover that his body had refused his mind's order, and the woman still knelt a few feet in front of him, unaffected by how close she had been to death.

"Richard, I know you can do this," Steve continued to encourage. "We need soldiers who are willing to obey orders and make sacrifices. This woman couldn't make the cut. I know you will prove to be different."

Now Richard's hands were violently shaking, his body repulsed at what he was trying to urge it to do. He looked up at the man once more and procrastinated for several minutes before Steve once again spoke up.

"After tomorrow, there will be other villages," he calmly said, "This man will not be the first person you are asked to kill. Sometimes we have to do hard things."

Finally, Richard took a deep breath, raised the pistol towards the man, and held the position. He tried several times to squeeze the trigger, but he the efforts were to no avail.

"Pull the damn trigger!" Steve's tone had suddenly become more sinister and his volume had grown to a demanding level. Horrified at the shout, Richard yanked his trigger finger against the hard metal, looking away as he did so. When he glanced back towards the woman he had shot, all that was there was a slumped body. Steve approached him, putting a proud hand on his shoulder.

"You're really something," he rewarded, "You and I are going to make things right." He glanced at the line of recruiters standing behind him, their dark armor opposing the light of the day. The scraggly smiles on their helmets all turned towards him as he spoke, "This one needs training."

science fiction


Life would be so boring without other people. Now please read my stuff.

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